


Who Cares?

by Barricades_And_Flowers (fyeahblackturtlenecks)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Enjolras doesn't deal with his feelings, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-18
Updated: 2013-07-18
Packaged: 2017-12-20 13:31:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/887842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fyeahblackturtlenecks/pseuds/Barricades_And_Flowers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras doesn't care about lonely souls, not even his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Who Cares?

Enjolras doesn't normally drink. But tonight, he does, because he needs it.

He should be happy for Marius. Everyone else is over the moon that he's finally got himself a girlfriend. Enjolras had just rolled his eyes, proclaiming over the excited voices of his friends, "Who cares about your lonely soul? We have work to do!" He was used to terms such as "buzzkill, stick-in-the-mud, etc.," and he wasn't disturbed in the slightest when he was waved off by Jehan, Coufeyrac, and Joly as they (and everyone else) leaned in for the juicy details. Enjolras, in the meantime, tries to redirect his attention back to the rally plans spread out in front of him.

But even a mind such as Enjolras', usually so fiercely focused, wanders. He thinks, thinks of Marius' new situation and how he'll probably be asking to bring this 'Cosette' character to meetings now. He knows that as someone who makes an effort to be a decent human being for most of the time, he should at least try to be happy, for Marius' sake. But he can't, he just can't, and when the Corinth finally clears out and even Grantaire has gone, making a joke about Enjolras the workaholic on his way out, Enjolras walks up to the bar and orders the first think he can think of. He lets his mind run wild for the first time all night. He thinks of Jehan, the romantic of the group, and how, during meetings, he will curl up in Courfeyrac's lap and the latter, instead of objecting, will simply smile and play with the end of Jehan's braid. He thinks of Joly and Bossuet and Musichetta, and how Joly and Bossuet will wait for the Cafe Musain to close just so that they can meet Musichetta on her way out. They each take one of her hands in theirs, and walk home together. And he thinks of the ever-present figure at the far end of the usual table, hunched over a bottle of wine. He thinks of how, when he's so absorbed in that night's speech, Grantaire will suddenly straighten and raise his wine bottle in protest, calling out every flaw in the half-formed plan. He will present a rebuttal for every argument, and no matter how long and how passionately Enjolras defends his cause, the best he can achieve is a stalemate. 

He wonders why, in the three years that he's been arguing with the cynic, he has never once asked him to leave.

Somewhere after his third drink, his mind stumbles across a new thought. Maybe doesn't want Grantaire to leave. Maybe he needs that presence at the other end of the table, those glowering blue eyes hazy with alcohol and yet so clear. Maybe the strangely articulate slur of Grantaire's voice helps keep Enjolras from losing himself in tangents and side concepts as he so often does. Maybe he sees that constant, mirthless smile as a challenge--"Impress me," say those icy blue eyes, shadowed by wild black curls and late nights. "Give me a reason as to why I should believe in this cause of yours," say those thin, graceful lips, so often curved around the edge of a bottle. "Yes," says Enjolras' mind, slightly muggy with drink, "You need him." For once, Enjolras is to exhausted to disagree and quietly complies on his way out of the bar. 

That night, Enjolras dreams of curly black hair and raised bottles, and then of fingers intertwining--paint-stained, long artist's fingers with his own pale ones. Hot breath against his neck and bodies pressing into each other between the sheets, teeth grazing neck and shoulder and chest, nails pressing into backs as the old bed frame creaks under their combined weight--

Enjolras wakes with a start, a headache, and an uncomfortable tightness in his pajama pants. He runs a hand through his hair, pulling himself up to a sitting position and tells himself not to be such a teenager. His own words come back to him in a whisper--"Who cares about your lonely soul? We have work to do!"


End file.
